Sleeping a Thousand Years
by PK Samurai
Summary: Harry Grindelwald has grown up hating muggles and believing that his sole purpose in life is to follow in the footsteps of his father. That is, until the day he finds out that his name, life, and even time have all been a lie. Not slash. / On Indefinite Hiatus /
1. Harry

**Sleeping a Thousand Years: **_AU. Harry Grindelwald has grown up hating muggles and believing that his sole purpose in life is to follow in the footsteps of his father. That is, until the day he finds out that his name, life, and even time have all been a lie. As he disentangles the truth from a web of lies, he must make a decision that will decide the fate of the Wizarding World._

**Author's note: **Inspired by most prominently Kurinoone's The Darkness Within and Epic Solemnity's Death of Today, so you may find similar elements. FYI, this is NOT slash.

**Disclaimer:** Based on JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: Harry<strong>

_Berlin 1944_

The night was bitter as it wrapped itself like a shawl around the city of Berlin. Distant sirens rang accusingly throughout the city as the sky lit with red bloody fire, illuminating several bombers circling around the city.

Had it had been any other month, or even week, the oddly dressed pair that strolled across the destroyed square would have attracted many stares and whispers, but as it was, nobody had time to spare either one anything more than a fleeting look. The one leading the way was a tall man, middle-aged and handsome with sharp, aristocratic features. Following just a step behind was a small boy, hardly a day over seven, with a reverent expression in his pointed features. The two were dressed similarly—and oddly—in flowing black cloaks, clasped by a curious metal triangle which's details could hardly be seen in the darkness.

"Vater," said the young boy, his voice high-pitched and strained. He forward as if to grab on to his father's cloak but instead stumbled slightly over the stray foot of a body on the ground. "Wo sind wir?" _Where are we?_

The man didn't break stride, seemingly oblivious to his son's troubles. "Habe ich dir schon gesagt, Harry. Wir sind in Berlin." _I already told you, Harry. In Berlin._

Harry gaped at the anarchy of the city that he loved. "Berlin? Was ist hier passiert?" _Berlin? What happened here?_

His father did not answer, and kept going onwards, picking up pace. Harry scrambled to follow after him; he knew that his father would eventually answer.

Every time he had visited Berlin, he had always stayed away from the muggles with slight revulsion; they had appeared so..._unaware._ But he loved the city that they had made—guided, no doubt, by the far more adequate wizards and witches of that time—and had enjoyed strolling through the sunny streets with his mother.

That had been only a few months ago. That morning, when his father had told him that they were headed to Berlin, Harry had been excited, and with the naiveté associated with most children, eager to show his father around. But now, Harry looked around the city in increasing horror, as the horrible muggle metal-objects that flew through the air scattered things that exploded with ear-deafening screeches.

Suddenly, the tall man stopped and wheeled around to face his startled son. He put his long fingers together, and gazed down at the trembling, pale figure with indifferent eyes.

"Harry," said the man softly, and something dark appeared to flicker in his pale blue eyes. "Weißt du, was ein Muggel ist?" _Do you know what a muggle is?_ At the word 'muggle', the man's facial features contorted into an open sneer.

"Ja, Vater," the boy answered quickly and lowered his eyes, shrinking under his father's expression. "Sie sind hirnlose Tiere, die nichts wissen und alles zerstören." _Yes father, they are mindless animals that know nothing and destroy everything._

There was a slight pause, and hesitantly, Harry peered back up at his father's face. It was blank, but Harry relaxed, knowing his father well enough to know that he had said the correct answer.

"Du hast mich gefragt, was hier passiert ist, richtig?" _You asked me what happened here, correct?_

Harry nodded, and bit his lip as he looked around at the broken city.

"Die Muggel, Harry." His father turned around, so that his back was facing Harry. To Harry, his father seemed to almost imperceptibly sag in weariness. "Sie haben unsere Stadt zerstört." _The muggles have destroyed our city._

For Harry, this sentence carried several implications, both joyful and painful. For the first time, his father had referred to something as if it were theirs, together—this was _their_ city. It had always been _your _mother, _your _sister, _your_ home. But now, they had something in common.

Yet, at the same time, it was horrible because the first thing that had ever been theirs and theirs alone, was now burning down at Harry's feet.

The father gazed calmly down at his son's face, and was pleased to note that the silly and childish expressions that usually graced his face were slowly contorting into something more foreign and adult. _Anger_ and _hatred_, directed at the useless muggles that ran amok in the world, forcing him to stain his own hands in their dirty blood.

He looked around at the chaos that he had created, and a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Versprich mir, dass du niemals vergessen wirst, dass die Muggel dies taten, mein Sohn. Darum ist es unsere Pflicht, sie zu zerstören." _Promise me that you will never forget that the muggles did this, my son. That is why it is our duty to erase them._

Harry fervently bobbed his head up and down in agreement, eyes glistening with pride as he did so. "Für das höhere Wohl, Vater." _For the Greater Good, father. _

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

_51 years later…_

The most powerful Dark wizard of all time glanced down with passing interest at the carnage around him. Rolling his wand gently between his fingers, he then stared up at the full moon that hung in the night sky. His pale white skin seemed to glow eerily under the moonlight.

Lord Voldemort yawned in his boredom as things settled around him. His Death Eaters were finishing up with the village; most of the muggles that had been here were dead now, their bodies already stiffening in the cold. The majority of the houses were on fire, and the flames almost cast a small shadow of excitement in his mind. Almost.

His red eyes gleamed in the dark as he saw a small movement several meters away, and with a flash of his wand, the last signs of life stilled. The only sounds now were the sounds of his laughing followers, harsh and heavy. He suppressed another yawn that he felt coming up, and opted to shift his attention to a Death Eater, masked in the customary bone mask, that was approaching him. Immediately, the man kneeled and bowed his head.

"My Lord…We've been tipped off that the Ministry has finally received news about our raid. The Aurors will be here any minute."

Voldemort cocked his head to the side lazily, and let the Death Eater squirm under his gaze for a few seconds before responding: "We will be rendezvousing with Lord Kaiser soon. It will soon be time for you to show me your worth…don't you think so, Lucius?"

Lucius Malfoy paused before murmuring his unwavering faith as he backed away from his master's feet. Voldemort watched him amusedly for a second, before returning his attention to the full moon. It was so utterly boring simply killing and torturing worthless muggles. Kaiser would have livened things up. He was never late; he'd be here in about—

"Moonlighting, are we?" a cold voice behind him rang out sharply. Voldemort let a shadow of a smile pass across his face; Kaiser was the only one who could ever sneak up on him unawares. Without responding, he turned around to face the Dark Lord of France, the only wizard he could trust in the world.

Kaiser stood calmly before him, in a simple dark cloak, with a dozen cloaked wizards standing silently in formation behind him: the Night Walkers. _Les marcheurs __de la nuit_.

"A…a dozen wizards?" Lucius spoke up in a barely disguised scandalized tone. "My Lords, there will be at least _fifty_ Auro—". He stopped with a choke, as if in response, a flurry of dark shapes and cloaks materialized around them in a circle. The Aurors were here. Immediately, almost as a single unit, the Aurors dropped to their knees and shot a barrage of curses towards them. There was a shout as the Death Eaters halted their play with the muggles, and readied their counterattack.

"Are you ready, _Tom_?" Kaiser sounded more amused than anything. He hadn't yet moved a muscle since his arrival, but the curses coming in their direction seemed to bounce off him. His Night Walkers circled around him protectively, sending rapid streams of spells back at the shouting Aurors.

Voldemort's mouth twitched in irritation. He hated anyone calling him by that name. Kaiser was the only one who called him that and got away with it so easily. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time anyone else had survived after calling him by that common name. With a sweep of his wand, he stopped a bone-breaking curse with a slab of concrete, and with another sweep, he killed the responsible Auror. Glancing to his side, he noticed with satisfaction that Kaiser had finally been forced to move by a well-aimed Killing curse, and chuckled with cold glee.

"Shall we enjoy ourselves, _Harry_?"

* * *

><p><strong>Edit: <strong>Thanks to CrimsonDomi for the German translations.


	2. Full Moon

**Author's note: **French will be expressed between parentheses – "(French)" while German will be expressed between brackets –"[German]".

**Disclaimer:** Based on JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: Full Moon<strong>

There were no doors in the main chamber. There was only one small circular window near the ceiling, which let a few beams of moonlight down on the Dark Lord of France, also known as the 'Kaiser'. He stood atop a slightly raised platform in the center of the room, surveying the wizards and witches around him. His followers were kneeling before him, their heads bowed and their faces hidden under pure white metal masks. The only embellishments to their simple black cloaks were the burnished metal clasps of the cloaks; they were triangular, with a circle and a line inscribed within.

The Dark Lord himself was similarly dressed, but with one difference—his face was hidden under a gleaming black mask. The vast majority of them had never seen anything of their master's face besides his strange eyes—cold blue on the left and deep green on the right.

They stayed in their positions silently for several minutes, before the Kaiser finally broke the silence with his customary phrase for battle: "Pour le plus grand bien." _For the Greater Good._

Collectively standing up, the Night Walkers disapparated in swirls of cloaks as they followed their Lord into the darkness.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

Harry did not enjoy taking part in such pointless activities like killing and torturing muggles. Doing so would not weaken the Ministry of Magic or negatively affect them in any way. It only made them angrier—and anger, when used properly, gave strength. He usually avoided entering the battle until the real fighters, the Aurors, entered the scene.

Tonight was particularly vicious; their numbers had almost doubled. The battle field was in the small forest dwelling by the burning village. It was an impossible chaos of screaming and flashes of light as the Dark Lords' followers and the Aurors threw curses at one another. Most of the Aurors were concentrating on him and Voldemort; even as they dueled a Death Eater or a Night Walker, their eyes were turned towards the two of them. Even as they lost the duel and the flicker of life disappeared from their eyes, their hands and accusatory glares of hatred reached towards Harry.

Harry felt the Killing curse coming his way before he saw it. His full-body shield wouldn't protect him from that. He prepared to apparate away, but in the same split-second, realized that the Aurors had erected an anti-Apparition ward around them. His lips curled into a shadow of a smile, as he physically dodged the curse. At least they'd done something right for once. The majority of the Aurors had now broken rank and were engaged in individual duels.

Harry himself picked off the stronger Auror individuals who were starting to overwhelm their lesser counterparts. He moved as a rapidly shifting shadow through the battle field; the last thing his victims saw were his eyes, glistening from behind the mask.

Suddenly from behind him, he heard Voldemort's high cold laughter. Harry stopped and watched silently as the wizard started levitating burning rubble from the ruined houses and rained them down on the Aurors. Unlike Harry, who favored the quick and efficient use of the Killing curse, Voldemort seemed to revel in being as flashy and awe-inspiring as possible. With shouts of alarm from the Aurors and whoops from their own men, the majority of the attention refocused on Voldemort.

That was fine with Harry. He wasn't interested in racking up a body count, although Voldemort seemed to take bestial glee in the fact that his kills were usually substantially higher than Harry's. What mattered was that these foolish wizards realized that they were no longer in power.

Laughing maniacally, Voldemort slashed his wand through the air, throwing back countless numbers of Aurors into the forest. His handsome face, uncovered by a mask, was split into a wide grin of bestial happiness that somehow took away from his appearance. Harry shook his head in bemusement and returned his concentration on stopping the barrage of spells several Aurors had thrown at him hopefully while he was distracted.

Soon, the remaining Aurors signaled their retreat. They staggered backwards as they threw any last lines of magic defense they had, before disapparating with piercing cracks once they were past the perimeter of the wards. The Death Eaters cheered in triumph and the majority fell to the ground in exhaustion, although several, still caught up in their bloodlust, turned to their Muggle captives.

Harry took a headcount, and was satisfied to see that his favored twelve Night Walkers were all still alive, although one was profusely bleeding. Voldemort had lost five Death Eaters, and there were at least a dozen bodies of Aurors lying on the ground. They were all still, as if dead, but Harry could tell that one of them was only superficially hurt. It was a young female Auror, and he imagined her heart must be racing in terror.

One of the Death Eaters had also picked up on this, and with a wicked grin and a wave of his wand, he had her levitating in the air. She screamed piercingly; the rest of the Death Eaters, like a pack of wolves, immediately swiveled to face her as they laughed uproariously.

"Crucio!" said the Death Eater gleefully, and the woman's screams escalated, along with their laughter. "Crucio, crucio, crucio!" The Death Eaters were howling in laughter now; others had joined in and were casting their own unforgivable curses at the convulsing body. Voldemort watched them amusedly, with the air of a parent watching his children stomp on ants.

Harry's Night Walkers were all standing in front of him, and were stiffly watching the torture. Although their faces were hidden behind their white masks, he saw most of them had their lips curled contemptuously at the barbaric display of cruelty. The injured one—Berger, from the looks of it—shuffled awkwardly as he attempted to stop the bleeding.

Harry glanced up at the full moon. It was getting late. Making up his mind, he took out his wand from the folds of his cloak.

"Avada Kedavra," he said coldly, flicking his wand at the woman, and her screams abruptly cut off. The raucous laughter ceased into silence and the responsible Death Eater almost sullenly let the body fall to the earth. He nodded at his Night Walkers in dismissal, and with looks of gratitude and a bow, they disapparated.

Voldemort glanced inquiringly at Harry, but dismissed his own Death Eaters. With a flurry of murmured "my Lords" and disappearing black robes, they were soon alone. He glanced at the raging fires in the distance. They would have to leave soon, however; the Aurors would no doubt come back with more reinforcements and Obliviators.

The moon seemed to hang from the skeletal branches of the trees surrounding them.

"Why don't you take that mask off, Kaiser?" Voldemort suggested in an easy tone, and Harry complied. Reaching up with his hand, he tugged off the cold mask. His sweating skin prickled under the frosty night air. He wiped off some of the sweat with his sleeves, and when he opened his eyes, he saw his friend smirking down at him. "You look as young as ever, Harry. What's your secret?"

"It's my veela charm," said Harry. "But you shouldn't be asking. You've looked this way for fifty years haven't you?" He gave Voldemort a cursory look. The man couldn't be a day older than on that fatal day so many years ago. With his appearance, he could have almost passed as a healthy, handsome twenty-one year old youth. Those red eyes could prove to be a problem though.

"Fifty-one years, actually," said Voldemort, steepling his fingers together and thrumming them against one another. He added in an almost accusatory tone, "Not that you'd know. You were gone for most of it."

"Everyone has their ways. You created a horcrux. I time-traveled." Harry shrugged easily, as if things like those were mundane everyday activities. Voldemort smiled thinly in response.

"When am I going to be able to see that marvelous time-turner of yours?" said Voldemort drily. Ever since finding out about Harry's reappearance, he'd been asking nonstop about his time-turner. Harry found it ironic that even in fifty years, while everything else had changed, his old friend's obsession with immortality hadn't faded.

"When your eyes stop gleaming murderously every time it's mentioned, perhaps," said Harry lightly, and then tensed. Someone was watching them. Probably a Ministry spy, sent ahead of the rest of the team to report on the situation. He glanced at Voldemort, who nodded back at him. They were done for the night; bidding adieu in the direction of the Ministry official, he disapparated away from the Muggle village.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

Gabrielle Delacour paced anxiously in her room as she looked back and forth from the ticking clock on her wall to the settling darkness outside her window. It was almost twelve. She looked pleadingly at the minute hand of the clock, as if she could stop it from moving. She probably could have if she had a wand, but she was not yet old enough to own one—and even if she did physically stop the hand from moving, time itself would move on, wouldn't it?

It was only five minutes until twelve now, and he still wasn't here. She plopped herself on her bed, and buried her face in her lacy pillow with a groan.

Suddenly, the door creaked open. Gabrielle shot up like a bullet, happiness rising in her throat, before she saw the incomer, and gloomily flopped back down on the bed.

"Oh, c'est juste toi," she said unhappily at the sight of her older sister. Even the sight of the wrapped gift in her hand couldn't bring up her spirits.

"(Yes, it's just me,)" Fleur frowned at the sight of the downtrodden girl. She sat down next to her, and put her present down to put her arm around her. "(What's wrong?)"

"(Henri's not here again,)" said Gabrielle grumpily, as she pressed her face into her sister's shoulder. "(He promised he'd be here this time!)"

Fleur glanced thoughtfully up at the clock. The minute hand was ticking slowly but surely towards the twelve.

"(When's the last time Henri broke a promise? He'll be here in time, don't worry,)" she said reassuringly, and soothingly rubbed her little sister's arms.

Fleur wasn't worried that Henri wouldn't be back in time. More often, she was worried about his own safety. She had no idea what he did by himself at such late times in the night. Surely it wasn't something any fifteen-year old boy should have been allowed to do, but she had to admit, their cousin wasn't just any fifteen-year old. He was…different from the other teenage, hormonal boys so rampant in Beauxbatons. Whatever he did was beyond her. Even grand-mère had strictly ordered their parents to not interfere with his business.

Suddenly, something moved in the shadows, and Fleur blinked, before smiling in relief. He always did manage to appear out of nowhere, even though apparition was impossible on Delacour grounds. "(Look, Henri's here.)"

"(You're lying to me,)" Gabrielle mumbled, but nevertheless, she raised her head hopefully. Her eyes widened as she saw their cousin, dressed all in black as customary, smiling down at her with a thin wrapped gift in his hands.

"Joyeux anniversaire Gabrielle," said Henri gently. Through the window, Gabrielle could hear the distant gongs of the midnight bell. "(I told you I'd be here on time.)"

"Henri!" said Gabrielle joyously, throwing herself on him. Laughing, he picked her up and swung her around before putting her down.

"Oof," he said, pretending to grimace. "(I can barely hold you. You're almost all grown up now!)"

"(I have, haven't I?)" Gabrielle beamed at him, straightening into the grown-up pose she'd been learning in her etiquette lessons for the past few months. Then, she got a proper look at the parcel in his hands, and losing all composure, she shrieked again. "(Is that what I think it is Henri?)"

Henri and Fleur shared meaningful glances before looking down at her.

"(Your mother felt that it was time for you to get your own wand,)" Henri started off, but he was interrupted by a shout of joy. Gabrielle started jumping up and down as she reached for the long wrapped package in his hands, but he held it out of reach.

"(Gabrielle, behave yourself,)" said Fleur sternly, but with a smile. "(Mama said you could get a wand only if you agreed to go to all your private lessons from now on.)"

"(I will! I promise!)" Gabrielle agreed immediately, reaching for the parcel again. This time, Henri let her grab it, and she tore the shiny silver wrapping apart to reveal the coveted item—a wand.

"(It's made of rose wood and a hair from grand-mère's head.)" Fleur explained, and smiled fondly down at the girl as she shrieked in joy again and started dancing around Henri.

"Merci, merci, merci!" said Gabrielle happily. "(Henri, do you think you could—)"

There was a knock on the door at the same moment Henri sharply turned to look outside the window into the darkness.

"(Master Henri, there is someone at the door waiting for you,)" the squeaky voice of their house elf, Brigitte, rang out hesitantly.

"(Tell him I'll be down in a moment.)" Henri said quietly, and they could hear the pitter patter of the house elf scampering away. Fleur stiffened at the sight of the transformation in her cousin. He was not exactly menacing, but there was something cold and dark about his facial expression that left her nervous. It was an expression, she thought to herself with a shiver, that was surely well beyond his years.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

Harry walked down the stairway, running his hand over the smooth wooden banister as he fixed his eyes on the glass door in the entrance. The portraits hanging on the walls on the stairway were quiet for once, although he could sense them murmuring to each other behind their elegant paper fans. The green tea coloring of the walls did little to lighten his mood, which was prickling at the edges of his consciousness.

He'd strictly ordered his Night Walkers to never approach him at the Delacour manor unless either of two things happened. The first priority was if any news of his father appeared. The second priority was if…no, it couldn't be. But his heart thudded in a way that it hadn't for years as he approached the door.

With a wave of his hand, the door flew open, and he saw that it was Dubois. Hugh Dubois was a stern-faced thirty-something old man with excellent credentials, but highly disillusioned with the French Ministry of Magic after they had refused to believe that muggles had killed his sister. He'd proven his worth to Harry many times, and as a member of the Dark Lord's privileged inner circle, he had already seen Harry's face before. Nevertheless, the man seemed a little startled at the sight of his young lord's face. It seemed to strike him again that his lord was still just a boy, not even of age.

Harry was used to the gawking, of course. Every time he went out in public, he received it. It was expected among the Delacours, in fact. All the Delacour daughters, with their mixture of veela blood, were sought out by every single eligible male heir in Europe. Harry was not a female, so he had not, of course, inherited the magical allure of veela. However, he was easily identifiable as his French identity, Henri Delacour, nephew of Apolline and Francois Delacour. Like Fleur and Gabrielle, Harry had the customary veela silver blond hair and aristocratic features along with a slim but fit form. But his eyes were the one thing that was different. His eyes were mismatched: one was the customary Delacour shiny blue but the other was an emerald green he had never seen amongst his various Delacour cousins. Or with anyone else, in fact.

When he was Henri Delacour and not the Dark Lord, he cast a color-changing spell on his green iris to make it blue. It wouldn't do for him to be unmasked by the mismatching colors of his eyes.

"(What is it, Dubois?)" said Harry quietly, looking coldly down at his follower. The man gulped and he lowered his gaze from Harry's face.

"(My Lord…We have received news from Gringotts that an intruder has broken into the Malfoy Vault. The anti-intruder wards we set were removed…We believe it to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix.)"

Harry stiffened as shock coursed through his body. It was impossible…Gringotts was supposed to be impenetrable was it not? What had the Order of the Phoenix been looking for? Surely, they couldn't have figured out that it was in there?

"(Those useless goblins.)" Harry snarled, clenching his fists in an uncharacteristic show of frustration. "(How long ago was this?)"

"(Just over ten minutes ago, my lord. There is a high chance that the intruder is still inside. We have alerted the goblins, and they have been working on shutting down the area.)"

"(Good.)" said Harry. Something moved behind him; he glanced back and saw the house elf hovering at the top of the staircase, looking anxiously down at them. As soon as it caught his eye, it squeaked and disappeared, leaving the parlor empty except for the portraits. And they couldn't say anything—he'd already made sure of that. "(Gather the rest and assist the goblins immediately.)"

"(Yes, my liege,)" said Dubois, and quickly turned around to leave the grounds. Harry reached into his cloak to make sure that his black mask was there—but it was, as always. Closing the door behind him, he fit the heavy mask on his face, ignoring the sense of suffocation that always seemed accompany it. He reached into the folds of his cloak and took out his metal clasp. Fitting it on his cloak, he walked to the fireplace, and reached into the jar of floo powder. He could sense his cousins in their rooms upstairs, restlessly pacing the room as they awaited his return.

But he couldn't tonight. His gaze darkened as he threw a pinch of powder into the fireplace. Shouting "Knockturn Alley!" Harry braced himself and walked in. A few moments later, the Dark Lord of France walked out of Borgin and Burkes.

His appearance was not lost on the few shoppers of the dark alley. Immediately recognizing his trademark clasp, they yelped and leapt out of his way. In his rising sense of urgency, it was just as well—he would have blasted them out of his way otherwise in his hurry.

Even if he hadn't already known where Gringotts was, he could have pinpointed it by the rising column of smoke he saw in the distance. Harry sped up his pace as he grimly realized that a battle between his Night Walkers and the Order must already be underway. As he approached the bank, more and more shoppers streamed past in panic as they hurried to get out of the way. Finally, he reached the marble steps of the bank. Dubois and about a dozen other Night Walkers were already there, shooting spells at members of the Order and taking cover behind the broken stone body of a lion.

Harry waved his wand, and aimed at one of the most aggressive Order members. "Stupefy!" He shouted, and the red light struck the dark-haired man squarely in the chest, lifting him up in midair and causing him to slam backwards into a broken slab of marble.

"Sirius!" cried out a bespectacled man, who then angrily turned towards Harry. Harry prepared himself as he saw the man get into the dueling stance customarily used by trained Aurors, and a moment later, he found himself surprised by the force and intensity of the magical volley of spells. But it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

Slowly, the man was pushed back by the onslaught of Harry's counterattack before he tripped over his own friend's body and fell backwards. Seeing with satisfaction that the Night Walkers were taking care of the rest of the Order, Harry headed to the open doors of Gringotts with grim determination. He would find the intruder in the Malfoy Vault and make sure he didn't get away.

But before he could step further in, he felt a hand grab forcibly at his ankle, and he nearly fell. Looking down, Harry saw the bespectacled man, his unruly black hair covered in white dust, holding on to his foot with a fierce expression on his face.

"You won't get past me, Kaiser!" the man spat hatefully, tightening his hold on Harry's ankle as he raised his wand.

"You think you can stop me?" said Harry coldly, as he raised his foot to physically kick the man away before he could say anything further. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he flung himself back. An instant later, the doors he had been standing in front of were no longer existent; they had been blasted into pieces by an extremely high powered shattering spell. A small funnel of smoke drifted up into the air from the remaining rubble. Harry turned his head in the direction from where the spell had come from, and his spine stiffened as he saw who it was.

"You…!" said Harry, his grasp on his wand tightening. He waved his wand, flinging a hate-filled stream of curses at the incomer. The magic simply rebounded on the sober-faced individual, and ricocheted back at Harry, who was forced to dodge to the side to avoid his own attack. "Albus Dumbledore!"

The old wizard, solemn faced and long bearded, peered at Harry's cloaked figure over half-moon spectacles.

"[I'm afraid I cannot let you kill any innocents tonight,]" said Dumbledore somberly. With a wave of his wand, he summoned several ropes that instantly bound to his Night Walkers. They cried out in fear as they fell to the ground, tied together. "[Kaiser.]"

"[You think you can stop me?]" said Harry coldly, although he stepped backwards involuntarily. He glanced at his fallen followers, and raising a hand, he wandlessly cut through their ropes. "(Go! The Malfoy Vault's protection takes priority!)"

His men, scrambling to their feet, hurried through the doors. Several of the standing members of the Order ran in after them. Harry raised his wand to kill them, but snarled as he was forced instead to turn and defend against Dumbledore, who was still standing there in those ridiculous violet robes with his somber expression.

"[You can't be here. Gringotts is neutral.]" said Harry as calmly as he could, as he aimed several particularly nasty curses at the elder wizard. He who batted them away effortlessly.

"[Yes.]" agreed Dumbledore, and he lowered his wand. "[And we will be leaving. But you have proven a point of mine that I had strong suspicions about. You have something important here, something so vital that you yourself would come all the way here into British territory.]"

Harry was frozen in place; he couldn't move a muscle as Dumbledore's words, as piercing as his blue eyes, went straight through him. Move! He snarled at himself, but he couldn't. It was almost as if his body wanted to listen to the rest of what the wizard had to say. His body craved to hear what excuses the wizard he hated the most in the world could come up with. Harry glared hatefully at him. The last time he had really faced him like this had been a long time ago. Many years ago.

"[I will find it, Kaiser,]" said the Hogwarts headmaster. "[And I will unmask you. I will show the world the coward that you are, as you hide behind that mask.]"

At last, Harry regained his composure, and his impassive mask—figuratively—was back in place. He allowed the old man a cold smile.

"Komm nur her." _Come after me._


	3. Yule Ball

**Author's note: **French will be expressed between parentheses – "(French)" while German will be expressed between brackets –"[German]".

**Disclaimer:** Based on JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter <strong>**Three: Yule Ball**

_North Sea 1947_

He wasn't sure how long he had been there, in this hell. Minutes, days, months, years, millennia… He wasn't aware of anything. He was only aware of pain, terror, dread, loss... He lay there in darkness, convulsing and screaming as the shadowy demons stood over him and sucked out his life until he was nothing but a dry shell...

_Minutes, days, months, years, millennia…_

But then.

After a thousand years, suddenly the unbearable, searing pain mitigated to a throbbing headache. He was suddenly aware of the cold slimy prison floor and the rusting thick metal bars in front of him. He was lying on the ground, trembling, as fat tears rolled their way down his face. It was still dark; there were no windows here. But he could see.

His vision was a little fuzzy, but as he focused on the dark shape standing outside his cell, clarity returned.

"Mutter…" he whispered_._ Looking surprised, he raised his hand toward his neck. His throat was raw and hoarse. He must have been screaming for quite some time.

"[Harry,]" his mother said sadly, looking down at his broken form. She put a hand through the bars and reached for him. "[Don't worry. I'm here.]"

Harry tried to get up, but he fell over, his weakened limbs unable to hold him.

"[Helene…Where is she?]"

His mother's face darkened, and she withdrew her hand to tightly grip the bars. "[She's gone, Harry. They killed her.]"

Wordlessly, Harry's hands dropped to his side.

"Nein," he cried gutturally, ignoring the burning pain in his throat. "[No, no…]"

His mother was saying something, but he couldn't hear her. His sister was gone. Helene was gone.

_No, no, no…_

All he wanted was for it all to go away. He wanted to return to the darkness, he wished the demons would come back and finish what they'd started.

"[Harry!]" Suddenly, there was a sharp pain, and Harry's head snapped to the side. He looked up blearily, ignoring the sting of his cheek; somehow, his mother had gotten inside the cell. "[Listen to me. We must get you out of here.]"

"[It doesn't matter…Dumbledore will come find me again. He'll kill more people…]"

"[Your father is still alive,]" his mother said sharply, shaking him. "[Didn't you tell me that you would follow your father to the ends of the earth?]"

"[He's in Nurmengard, mother,]" said Harry tiredly. "[It's all over. Dumbledore has won.]"

"[Listen to me, Harry. Right now, with Dumbledore at the peak of his prime, we cannot do anything. But there will be a time when that man is decrepit and his beard streaked with white. Dumbledore cannot live forever.]" She said harshly, and reaching for something around her neck, she pulled out a metal chain. There was a strange circular object attached to it with inscriptions all around its edge. "[Take this, Harry.]"

"[What's this…?]"

"[It's a time-turner,]" she said with a burning look in her eyes, and pressed it into his hands. "[It will tie you to me. You will go into the future, Harry, when Dumbledore is weakest, and you will take back from him everything he took from us.]" She saw the doubt flicker in his eyes, and her face hardened. "[If that won't move you, I must tell you something. I wasn't being entirely truthful, Harry. Helene is dead, but she can return.]"

Harry gaped at her in shock, and the color started returning to his face. "[What…?]"

"[This time-turner is not a regular time-turner. It is made of ancient magic…it ties all of our lives together. You, me, your father, Helene. _And Dumbledore_. When Dumbledore dies, Helene will return. I promise you, Harry.]" His mother looked him directly in the eyes, and Harry could see that she was not lying to him. It was the truth.

If Dumbledore died, they would all be together again. If only Dumbledore was gone…

Anger and pain coursed through him, but instead of weakening him, it made him stronger. He gripped the chain tightly in his hands.

"[I'll do it,]" he said harshly, and put the chain around his neck.

"[You must not let it break, Harry,]" his mother said, taking out her wand as she readied the enchantment that would activate the time-turner. "[If it breaks, Helene will be forever beyond us. This is the only thing keeping her tied to us.]"

Harry's breath caught in his chest, as he looked down at the fragile time-turner in his hand. Grim determination blazed in his eyes. He couldn't hold on to it, then. He would have to put it in the safest place known to him. But he would protect it.

"[I'm ready mother,]" he said, straightening. "[What will happen to you?]"

"[I'll be fine. I'll be waiting for you, my son,]" his mother said, waving her wand. The ground around them glowed pure white and Harry could feel a powerful force pulling at him. He could hear a great wave of whispers and murmurs surrounding him. Soon, the nostalgic white light took over, and the cell and his mother were gone. Only he was there, with the white light, and the overwhelming spirit of the world, which welcomed him back.

Then he was gone too.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

_Paris 1995_

In the opulent ballroom of the annual pureblood Yule Ball, the Delacour heiress was the center of attention as usual. Dressed in shimmery blue lilac robes that only accentuated her flawless face, she shone like a brilliant diamond in the rough as she swept across the chandelier-lit dance floor, followed by flocks of admiring young wizards.

Fleur Delacour was receiving more attention than in previous years, as she was now of age. Love-stricken young wizards weren't the only ones begging for her attention now; the mothers of prospective suitors were eyeing her as they contemplated the benefits of a Delacour heiress marrying into their family.

As for Gabrielle, although her face was as exquisite as her older sister's, she had only recently turned eight. She was not yet old enough to be noticed, to her displeasure, and was only ever oohed and aahed over by the elder witches. But nevertheless, this was the first year she'd been allowed to attend the ball, so she was determined to have a good time.

Drifting through the ballroom, her gaze wandered to the punch table at the back, and her face brightened.

"(Henri!)" Gabrielle called out, dashing forwards to her cousin. Looking haughtily handsome in black dress robes, her cousin was standing in the shadows talking to an older, aristocratic looking man with pale blond hair. She faltered when she saw the dark look on his face, but blamed it on her imagination as it brightened into affection when he heard her call his name.

"(Gabby,)" Henri answered with a smile. He motioned to the man standing next to him, who gave her a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "(This is Monsieur Malfoy. You've heard of him I'm sure? Monsieur Malfoy, this is my cousin Gabrielle Delacour.)"

"(So you are the exquisite younger Delacour heiress,)" said Malfoy, inclining his head towards her. His long pale blond hair partly dipped into the glass of red champagne he was holding. "(It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.)"

Gabrielle gave the man her best curtsy and her fakest smile, and then turned to her cousin inquisitively. "(Henri, Mama wanted to introduce some people to you.)"

Henri nodded in understanding. ("If you'll excuse us, Monsieur Malfoy. Enjoy the rest of the evening.)" he said, and the two exchanged a glance that Gabrielle didn't understand—or like. Henri disappeared into the throng of talking and drinking people.

Gabrielle paused, before following her cousin.

"(Did you know your hair is in your drink?)" she said, motioning to his hair with her hand, and left with a triumphant look on her face as she saw the man immediately put his glass down.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

Harry was a little startled to see the Auror he'd fought in front of Gringotts suddenly appear in front of him. He looked a bit more groomed than before, and Harry could tell that there had been a valiant but ultimately fruitless effort to flatten the man's unkempt black hair. He was even more surprised when he saw his aunt and uncle, Apolline and Francois, speaking to the man and a woman whom he presumed to be his wife.

Francois looked as pleasant and plump as usual, and Apolline looked as glorious as her daughters like always. She glanced over at him just then, and with a bright expression of her face, motioned him over. "Ah, Henri, t'étais où?"

"(Just talking to people,)" said Harry. "(Did you want me?)"

"(Ah, yes, I wanted to introduce you to some old family friends.)" said Francois, gesturing to the pair. Seeing their confused expressions at the rapid exchange of French, he chortled and added apologetically, "(I know you don't like English very much, but they don't speak much French so could you try?)"

"Okay…" said Harry with a shrug. The Dark Lord spoke flawless English, but as Henri Delacour, he had pretended to struggle.

"James, Lily, zis is my nephew Henri Delacour," said Apolline. "'e's fifteen and 'e attends Beauxbatons Academy. And 'ere is my daughter, Gabrielle."

"Bonjour. Nice to meet you," he said, forcing a smile. Next to him, Gabrielle curtsied.

"Erm, bonjour…Ahn-ree was it?" the man said awkwardly, sticking his hand out in greeting. Harry stared down at it, and then shook it. "I'm James Potter. And this is my wife, Lily Potter née Evans."

"Hello, it's very nice to meet you," said Mrs. Potter. She was quite pretty with red hair and deep green eyes. She looked a little familiar. "Our son is also in school. Hogwarts, though."

"Pleasure," said Harry. "I 'ave 'eard of ze Potters, bien sûr. I did not realize you also 'ad a son."

Who hadn't? Their story had been quite the popular tragedy for a while. Their first son had been predicted to bring balance to the world and to be the only force that could counter Voldemort. That was, until he suddenly disappeared one day at the tender age of fifteen months. The majority of the Wizarding world believed Voldemort had killed the baby, but Voldemort had never said whether it was true or not, not even to Harry.

The Potters were also famous for being a part of Dumbledore's little group of followers.

"Yes, we…we had a second son." said Mr. Potter. There was an awkward pause, until Francois broke the ice with his booming laugh.

"Well, per'aps we can introduce our daughter to 'im?" he said jokingly. Gabrielle frowned in response, and Mrs. Potter smiled warmly down at her.

"He's a little old for her, I think," she said kindly.

Suddenly, a glass shattered from behind them, and they all turned to see what it was. A brutal-faced middle-aged man and his emaciated wife were looking in their direction with disgusted expressions. The room fell silent, as the watchers held their breath in anticipation.

"I thought this was a _pureblood-only_ event," said the man loudly, raising a finger and pointing accusingly at Mrs. Potter. "Who let the trash in?" Mrs. Potter looked a little startled, but didn't react, as if she were used to it.

"Monsieur Yaxley—" Francois started out hesitatingly, but he was interrupted.

"Yes, good question." said Mr. Potter coldly, stepping closer to the man. "Who let the trash in?"

Yaxley, who Harry recognized as one of Voldemort's inner circle, snarled as his wife sputtered indignantly next to him.

"We're leaving," Yaxley spat, straightening his dress robes. "Clearly, standards in Paris have dropped these days." He and his wife stalked out of the ballroom, and the ballroom remained hushed for a moment before the activity and talking resumed.

"I'm sorry you 'ad to see that," said Apolline throatily, shaking her head.

"Not at all," said Mrs. Potter, although she looked troubled. "I'm quite used to it."

"Zat is unfortunate. Although it 'as been getting worse lately, I feel," said Francois disapprovingly. "Especially with ze…ze raids and such." He ended haltingly, looking down at Gabrielle.

"'Raids'? Ça veut dire quoi?" Gabrielle asked inquiringly, but no one answered her.

"Yes, what do you mean, oncle?" Harry pressed on, subtly glancing at the Potters' expressions.

Francois looked a little surprised at Harry's indiscretion, but before he could say anything, the Auror answered harshly, "Voldemort and Kaiser are wreaking havoc is what he means." Harry's aunt and uncle flinched at their names. "They're killing innocents in the name of _blood purity_. And the worst part of it is, half the people in this room turn and look the other way, just because the innocent is a muggle…"

"Alors, vous ne pensez pas que les sorciers sont supérieurs aux muggles?" said Harry.

"I-I'm sorry, what?" said Mr. Potter.

"What I mean is…" he pretended to search for the right words, "You do not zeenk that ze wizards are better zen ze muggles?"

"No, of course not," said Mr. Potter, stiffening. "We're not defined by our blood or even our magic. We are who we are by our actions. And Voldemort and Kaiser's actions put them lower than the very muggles they hate."

"So you are with…I'm sorry…Dumblydore zen?" said Harry.

"Dumbledore," Mrs. Potter automatically corrected him. "Yes, we are."

Harry offered them a small smile, and didn't respond. Looking unsettled, after a few more polite pleasantries, the Potters decided that they were done for the night, and left. Meanwhile, Harry stopped one of the serving house elves, and picked up a glass.

"(What was all that about, mama?)" Gabrielle finally asked Apolline.

"(Nothing that concerns you, chérie,)" she answered soothingly. "(Why don't you go find your sister, it's getting quite late.)" Gabrielle compliantly left and as soon as she disappeared into the crowd, his aunt rounded on him with a stern expression. "(I'm surprised at you, Henri. I thought you had better sense than to bring it up around Gabrielle. She's only eight, for Merlin's sake.)"

"(I'm sorry,)" said Harry, swirling the contents of his glass. He looked down at the blood red liquid.

His sister had been only seven, though.


	4. New Year's Eve

**Author's note: **French will be expressed between parentheses – "(French)" while German will be expressed between brackets –"[German]".

**Disclaimer:** Based on JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: New Year's Eve<strong>

It was not a good week for James Potter.

Finally on his winter break, he'd gratefully taken off his Auror robes at the office and pulled on his regular civilian cloak to join his wife and son in a long-deserved family gathering…but of course, Dumbledore had called for yet another Order meeting at Grimmauld Place.

At the meeting, Remus had reported that he had somehow been able to spy on Voldemort and Kaiser talking after one of their gruesome Muggle village raids. He had heard mention of a "horcrux" and a "time-turner." After his report, James noticed that Dumbledore looked troubled. The horcrux wasn't anything new; everyone in the Order knew that Voldemort was holding on to his youth by tearing his soul apart. But the time-turner wasn't something they had heard before.

So, spontaneously, Dumbledore had organized a robbery on _Gringotts_ of all places. Gringotts! One of the most secure and safest places in the world, second only to Hogwarts itself. You'd be insane to try even a _fake_ heist.

But Dumbledore did have a habit of expecting the impossible. And James had come to know over the years, that with Dumbledore, even the seemingly impossible was possible.

Alastor Moody and Frank Longbotton had the job of distracting the goblins while the rest of the Order were in charge of fighting off the Night Walkers. In the midst of the chaos, James somehow found himself grabbing on to the very foot of Kaiser. He might very well have been blasted all the way into oblivion if Dumbledore hadn't intervened.

And he hadn't even had _dinner_ for Merlin's sake.

Thankfully after that, Kaiser and the Night Walkers had fled, and he'd been able to return home to Godric's Hollow. It'd been far too late for dinner, but at least everyone in the Order had made it to their homes in one piece. Then, after a few days of blissful peace, James had accepted a Yule ball invitation from his old Gobstones friends, Francois and Apolline Delacour. That day was almost as bad as the day of the Gringotts heist; first, Darren had refused to go and sulked in his room for hours, and then when the two of them finally gave up and went to the ball, that pure-blood maniac Yaxley had to shake things up—James had a strong suspicion that Yaxley was a Death Eater but he'd never been able to get enough proof. Lily had brushed it off as nothing, but he could tell what that lunatic had said had disturbed her.

And finally, he'd gotten a bad feeling about that nephew of the Delacours…Ahn-ree or something, he hadn't been able to catch the strange name. He'd been courteous enough, and intelligent by the sounds of it, although his English needed work. But there'd been a look in the boy's eyes for an instant that made James feel cold inside. He'd thought, perhaps his Auror instinct was making him overly paranoid.

But deep down, James knew: that boy was not quite what he seemed.

He shook his head to clear it. That was enough paranoia and distrust for the week. James looked at his wife, Lily, sleeping in the bed next to him, and he felt a swelling feeling of warmth in his heart. Moving closer to her, he put his arm around her form and buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair.

He'd protect her, even if he hadn't been able to protect their son.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

The unplottable chateau where the Dark Lord of France had made his headquarters was rumored to be located somewhere in the upper north region of France, where his hold was the strongest. Not much else was known about it except that sometimes, during a heavy storm, one could see a flickering, shadowy manor in the distance.

A second rumor that had started to make its rounds was that the chateau housed an old demoness who could control the weather and the seas, and who gave the Dark Lord half of its overwhelming power in exchange for periodic human sacrifices.

Most of the Wizarding world outwardly laughed at these rumors; others used these stories to warn their children about the Dark Lord and to keep them safe at home. But those who lived closest to the rumored region, couldn't help but feel a rising sense of grim disaster whenever they looked into the horizon.

"Le Seigneur vous bénisse et vous garde…" they'd whisper to one another.

Harry found it quite amusing, however. The chateau of death or whatever they were calling it now was nothing but one of the old Delacour manors, unused and abandoned—to the general public.

He stood in front of the black iron gates, which should have been stiff and frozen over, but were magically spelled to repel ice. Beyond the gates, his mother's manor loomed in the distance, a stately and elegant Baroque building that bridged into a dome.

Harry held his gift for his mother firmly in his hand as he waited for her to notice his presence. He couldn't apparate in just yet; the wards were too strong for him to break past, and could only be lowered by his mother. He looked around; it had stopped snowing, but the grounds were covered in white, and his breath came out as a thick white mist.

Then, he felt the pressure that was straining against him suddenly disappear, and he disapparated with a resounding crack before reappearing inside one of the corridors inside the manor. It was cold and dark, lit by a row of torches with blue flames, and the cracked walls and floor were made of old cast stone.

There were two main sections to the manor; one was devoted to him and the Night Walkers. He held his meetings here, but there were also housing sections. Any Night Walkers who had been accidentally unmasked or were on the run from the Ministry for some other reason were allowed to live here.

The other main section was where his mother dwelled. She had been waiting for him when he returned, just as she said she would have. She was older now; her glorious face had wrinkled and lined, but she still possessed a quite grand atmosphere. She was still as powerful as she had been however, if not more—and that was what really mattered to the both of them.

She was waiting for him now. Harry raised a hand, and a secret doorway slid open in one of the stone walls to reveal a hidden passage. Entering the darkness, he made his way surely and quickly out of habit, until he reemerged into a brighter and warmer-lit room. The stone walls were covered with tapestries of family trees and portraits of famous ancestors; the floor had been recovered with paneled hardwood, magically spelled to alert the presence of any intruders. Gilded furniture with plump, comfortable velvet coverings were arranged in a circle in the center, where his mother was sitting, sipping a cup of tea.

"[Mother,]" said Harry, approaching her and kneeling before her. He offered her his gift, a single white rose.

"Danke, mein Sohn," said his mother, with a gracious smile. She was immaculately dressed in dark green silky robes, and her thick silver blond hair was piled up like a nest on the top of her head. She took the rose and sniffed at it daintily before looking back up at him. "[Sit, sit. You have been taking care of yourself, I hope. You are looking a little peaky.]"

After allowing his mother to fuss over him a little, he asked her the same question he asked every time he went to see her: "[Mother…has there been any news on father?]"

"[I'm afraid not. It is not yet safe to rescue your father,]" she said bitterly, shaking her head. He nodded. "[I've been putting some pressure on the Ministry, but at the moment they're more afraid of Dumbledore than they are of me.]"

"[Dumbledore,]" repeated Harry with a scowl. "[Mother, he attempted to attack Gringotts.]" His mother sniffed indignantly and raised her hand. Immediately, her servant, a flappy-eared house elf with bulbous eyes, scampered out and served her another teacup before dashing away.

"[I'd heard,]" she finally said, and before he could open his mouth again, she added in a harder tone, "[I've told you countless times, Harry. Leave it in Gringotts. It is safer there than even here, I assure you.]"

"[But I could put more wards and enchantments on top of what you alread—]" he started to argue, but was interrupted by the sound of glass shattering. In that brief moment of déjà vu, he wildly thought, _not this again_.

"[We will not be talking about this,]" said his mother in a deathly quiet voice.

"[Yes, mother,]" said Harry stiffly. Looking down at the shattered pieces of the cup and the ruined carpet, he waved his hand. The pieces immediately reformed into the flawless teacup and even the remaining droplets returned to it. He offered it as a silent peace offering to his mother, who accepted it.

"[Forgive my outburst, Harry,]" she said delicately as she gazed at his face coolly. "[An old lady like myself with little company except for these useless house elves…she can lose control of herself.]"

"[That's alright, mother,]" said Harry, who was quite used to it by now.

"[Embrace your mother, dear. You haven't done that in so long,]" she said, opening her arms towards Harry, who compliantly leaned into her embrace. He closed his eyes at her familiar scent of wax and rosemary. "[It makes a mother quite sad…]"

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

It was New Year's Eve, and even the recent grim news of unexplained disasters and serial killers couldn't faze the glow of festivity and celebration. All over snow-covered London, people were visiting their families and loved ones with joyous exchanges of hugs and kisses. Last-minute shoppers were hurrying through the jam-packed malls and squares, eager to get to their warm homes.

No one noticed the young man wandering through the dark streets alone with his face covered by his black hoodie. The wind was strong as it blew the snow into the passersby faces, and no one seemed to notice that the man—or teenager—did not seem to have to struggle to keep the hood about his face.

One passerby who did happen to catch a glimpse of the young man's face did a double take, but found that the young man had disappeared. Blaming it on her active imagination, she returned to her flat and after a few days of contemplation, she would write a smash-hit success about a pale handsome young vampire.

Harry stopped at an empty street next to a flickering lamp pole. After a few moments of contemplation and finding that the flickering irritated his eyes, he waved a hand, and the light went out entirely.

"How'd you do that?" asked a curious voice from behind him. Harry narrowed his eyes and looked around; it was a small muggle girl with dirty blond hair, dressed in a blue jumper and an orange furry coat that was two sizes too big for her. He'd obviously overlooked her because her complete lack of magical presence hadn't even registered with him.

"Magic," he said after a moment's pause.

"My mom says there's no such thing as magic," she said matter-of-factly, starting to hop on one foot in agitation as she rubbed her hands together. "But then, she said she'd be back hours ago, so maybe she was lying about that too."

"You're a smart little girl," he said, and pulled his wand out of his jean pocket. "Stupefy."

A moment later, there was a resounding crack. A tall man in a black cloak and a white mask knelt before him. He looked a little surprised at the body of the small muggle girl lying still on the snow-covered ground.

"(My lord, I have brought a message for you,)" said his Night Walker. "(Our spies have sent news that the majority of the Order of the Phoenix are currently amassed together in an unsecured muggle location.)"

"(It's a trap,)" said Harry dismissively. "(Ignore it.)"

"(Yes, but…)" the man hesitated, his flickering gaze betraying his anxiety. "(Lord Voldemort has given the order to attack.)"

Harry's eyes narrowed. That was strange. Voldemort wouldn't do something as rash as that without good reason. Obviously, there was something going on that he hadn't bothered to tell Harry about. Harry was discovering every day little bits of information that Voldemort hadn't told him, and it disconcerted him. His old friend was definitely hiding something from him.

Harry pulled out his black mask from his pockets. He didn't have his cloak, but the mask would have to do. Let them be thrown off by his muggle clothes. He glanced down at the abandoned muggle girl, who still lay on the ground stiffly. If he left her there in the bone-chilling night, she'd most likely freeze to death.

"(Where is it?)" he asked, fitting the mask over his face. Perhaps Henri Delacour, that ridiculous charade of his, would have saved her. But he wasn't a young French heir with nothing to do but act on heroic impulses.

"(A place called Ottery St. Catchpole, my lord,)" said the Night Walker. Harry froze. His breath caught in his chest, and his eyes widened impossibly.

Ottery St. Catchpole? That was impossible. It couldn't be.

"_Ginny_," he whispered involuntarily.


	5. Discovery

**Author's note: **French will be expressed between parentheses – "(French)" while German will be expressed between brackets –"[German]".

**Disclaimer:** Based on JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Discovery<strong>

_Ottery St. Catchpole, 1991_

It was afternoon and the winter frost was still clinging on to the trees and roofs of the small town of Ottery St. Catchpole, a slumbering place tucked away amongst hilly forests. The children had finally returned to school and although the snowy hills were still covered in footprints, the trees around seemed to sigh in relief at the reprieve of silence.

Mrs. Arabella Figg, the aging landlady of the local tavern—The Sleepy Otter—was looking forward to the weeks of peace ahead. Business would be slow, of course, but she always felt hopeful around this time of the year. Ottery St. Catchpole was a small town but there always seemed to be so much to do in the course of things, and she felt as if she barely had time to catch her breath.

Mrs. Figg had stepped out of the smoky warm tavern to cool down for a moment. There was still the pumpkin cider to brew and two reservations had been made, so she had to tidy up some of the room, but she found herself drawn to the outside more strongly than usual. She inhaled deeply in the icy air and eyed the rusty hinges of the tavern doors. Ever since her husband had left the world three years ago, and with no children, she had been running the tavern by herself and the tavern, although clean and well-kept, was starting to fall into disrepair.

"Mrs. Figg, why don't you get an assistant to help you around? There's plenty of young uns here who could do with some honest work," one of her customers had suggested. Thinking back on the idea, Mrs. Figg pursed her thin lips in contemplation. True, she was no longer the bustling, sharp woman she had once been—the years had made sure of that—but she'd done fine on her own so far. She could hire Smithson, the local handyman, to come and tweak some of the parts that were falling apart, but besides that…

She jerked as a flash of white engulfed everything around her in blankness before everything returned to the way it was before. Caught off balance, Mrs. Figg dizzily balanced herself against the side of the tavern, her wrinkled hands slapping against the brick walls. It took only a moment and it was gone. Blinking and breathing a little bit heavier, Mrs. Figg looked around her surroundings in fear. If Mrs. Figg had been a normal sixty-something woman, she might have blamed it on her age, but Mrs. Figg was not a normal woman.

She was not exactly a witch, but a squib. Once upon a time she may have been bitter about this, and many tears and tantrums may have ensued, but she'd grown past them as time passed—and she eventually left the Wizarding world. She was now quite content to run her little tavern in this sleepy little Muggle town, even after her Muggle husband had left her. And with the magical world falling into such disarray and chaos with the rise of one dark lord after another—who would want to be a part of it?

So when the white light filled her small world for that brief moment, she knew that it was something beyond her scope. Looking harried, the old woman looked at the hills surrounding her, which had only a few minutes ago looked so peaceful but now looked menacing as if they were bearing down on her. Perhaps the dark wizards were no longer content with hunting muggles—perhaps they were after squibs now.

Her watery and weak eyes flickered around and came to rest on a dark spot about a hundred feet away from her—she'd left her glasses inside, not wanting them to fog up. There had been nothing there just a few seconds ago, she reaffirmed, and with a thundering heart, she grabbed a broom. She edged her way up the hill, holding the broom like a lance. As she got closer however, she realized to her surprise that it was a person lying spread eagled on the ground, facedown. He was dressed all in black and stood out like a splot of ink on the pure white snow. Finally reaching him after some gasping and wheezing—the Sleepy Otter had only the ground floor and no stairs—she peered down at him, and finally lowered the broom with a sigh of relief. It was just a young boy.

Motherly concern taking over her, she rushed to put down the broom and kneeled on the ground next to him. With some grunting due to her weak muscles, she managed to turn the body over, and using her flower-print apron, brushed the bits of snow off of him. She saw to her relief that the child was still breathing, as white mist formed at his blue lips, and then faltered as she saw the boy's eyes flutter faintly. Some strange feeling of fear came over her, even though it was just a little boy, and she was about to pick up her broom again—when the child's eyes opened.

For a moment, she was struck by how beautiful the boy was. He was very pale, his skin looking translucent with the snow around him, and combined with his silvery blond hair and finely formed features, he looked like one of those idealized Greek statues of young angels. His eyes were the most peculiar she had ever seen—bright piercing blue and emerald green—and they narrowed in suspicion as they looked up at her.

"Wer bist du?" said the boy in a high, clear voice, eyeing her warily. _He's speaking German_, her brain wildly supplied her, and she fumbled for the few sentences she knew as she gaped at him.

"I - ich bin Arabella Figg," she said, her broom hanging uselessly in her grip as she paced agitatedly. _How did you say 'where are you from' again?_ "where…kommst…you?"

The boy's eyes widened in shock at her horrible German, and he immediately reached for something that was hanging from around his neck.

"Is this Britain?" he asked with a slight German accent, and Mrs. Figg sighed in relief for the second time in five minutes and stopped pacing.

"Yes it is," she said. "Where are you from, child? Where are your parents?" The boy did not respond, but she noticed that he squeezed the thing in his hand several times. After a few moments of silence, she noticed that he was shivering—he was dressed in practically nothing but rags—and added kindly, "would you like to come inside for a cup of hot chocolate, dear?"

The boy's gaze was that of a shrewd adult as it bore into her, and for a moment, Mrs. Figg almost regretted inviting the mysterious boy in—but then his face transformed back into the innocent angel he so resembled.

"Yes please," he said, and smiled.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

As soon as he woke up that morning and saw the white hills of snow from his window, Ron Weasley knew that it was going to be a great day. Throwing the bed blankets up, he got out of bed, and looking out his window every other second, quickly got dressed and raced down the stairs.

"Ginny!" he said loudly, banging on the door on the third landing. "Ginny, get up!" A few moments later, the door opened just enough to reveal a pair of sleepy brown eyes.

"What?" his younger sister said groggily.

"It snowed overnight again. You know what that means – "

"Right now?" Ginny yawned, closing her eyes. "I'd rather go back to sleep."

"C'mon, Ginny! Next time this year, I won't be here – I'll be at Hogwarts remember – and you'll wish you'd gone with me," said Ron in a cajoling tone. But Ginny simply rolled her eyes.

"Yeah I know," she said crossly. "You've been rubbing it in my face that you're going to Hogwarts before me ever since Fred and George left." After some more wheedling and coaxing however, Ginny eventually agreed to go out and closed the door again. Ten minutes later, dressed warmly in their mother's jumpers—Ron moaning about his being maroon as usual—the two walked out of the Burrow and made their way down the hill to the sleepy Muggle village.

Every time it snowed, old Mrs. Figg offered free mugs of the greatest butterbeers in the world to whoever swept the snow away in front of her tavern. Fred and George always insisted that the butterbeer in Hogsmeade—the village next to Hogwarts—was even better, but Ron was quite content with Mrs. Figg's.

After a few stalls where Ginny discovered some cute furry animal hiding in the snow and a minor snowball fight, they eventually found themselves at the rusty metal archway that spelled out the words 'Ottery St. Catchpole.'

"Mum could fix that in a moment," Ginny whispered to Ron as they walked below it. "Why do they let it rust like that?"

"Muggles don't know how to do things," said Ron matter-of-factly, twisting behind him to look at the footprints he left behind.

"But Dad said they have these things called fellytones that can…can…" Ginny trailed off, and Ron twisted back around to see what she was staring at. There, in front of the Sleepy Otter, a young boy with pale hair was sweeping the snow.

"Hey, that's our job!" Ron protested, walking rapidly up to the boy. Ginny followed closely behind her brother, observing the strange new boy with bright eyes. He had very strange eyes. She'd never seen him before, and she thought she'd known all the local children here by now.

The boy was about Ron's age, and when he spotted them coming closer, he stopped sweeping and looked at them bewilderedly.

"Yes?" he said politely, holding the broom in his two hands.

"I…er…" said Ron, suddenly realizing that Mrs. Figg's offer did in fact extend to anyone in the town. "We were going to clear the snow," he finished lamely. The boy blinked in surprise, and then held out the broom willingly.

"You can if you vant," he said, placing it in Ron's hands; Ron looked down at it blankly. "I didn't know Mrs. Figg had other people to do things. It vas just one of my chores."

"You're not from around here are you," said Ginny shyly, picking up on his slight accent. She turned scarlet as the strange boy turned his attention to her, and was suddenly glad that she'd worn the brand-new jumper she'd gotten that Christmas.

"No," he said softly.

"I've never seen you before here," said Ron to the boy, holding out his hand to the boy. He seemed to finally have snapped out of it. "I'm Ron, Ron Weasley. This is my sister Ginny."

They shook hands, and Ron gave the boy back his broom.

"I'm Harry," he said.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

_Ottery St. Catchpole, New Years 1996_

The muggle town in which Harry had spent his first months in the future was going up in flames. The grocery store…the strange station where those muggle vehicles refilled their energy…and Mrs. Figg's tavern. The Sleepy Otter was no more.

The muggle townspeople were shouting in terror and confusion as Death Eaters marched through the village wreaking havoc. Harry wondered briefly where Mrs. Figg was and felt a flicker of anxiety—but quickly banished it as more pressing matters came to mind. Did Ginny and Ron still live here? It had been a couple of years since he'd last seen them, but he knew from his spies' reports that the Weasleys still resided near Ottery St. Catchpole.

Harry had felt pained when he first learned that the Weasleys were a part of the Order of the Phoenix, but had to admit, he wasn't surprised.

He shook himself out of his reverie as he sensed a spell coming in his direction, and he quickly dodged it. Spinning around, he pulled out his wand and in the same motion, slashed it through the air to blast the perpetrator—a Death Eater—into the air. He fell into his usual dueling stance, tensed; he could feel a strange disturbance in the air, as if something was waiting for him.

Harry tested the wards around the town; there weren't any anti-disapparition wards set, as he'd first suspected, but the uneasy feeling wouldn't go away. He looked around, searching for Voldemort, but it looked as if the Death Eaters were running amok. He frowned, wondering why exactly they were running free with little retaliation. Where was the Order?

A second later, he knew the answer. Nothing had changed outwardly, but he felt a very cold chill suddenly emanating through his body, and he cried out in fear as he felt his very self being ripped apart. The magical fires of the houses around him suddenly went out like candle lights in the midst of a storm. He looked down at his wand in shock, and then waving it at a stray stone on the ground, he whispered, "Wingardium Leviosa."

The stone didn't move, and he realized what had happened. His magic was gone. They'd stripped him! Suddenly, he was very empty. He trembled as the feeling of vulnerability swept through him for the first time in years, and staggering, he ripped off his mask.

Harry knew he wasn't the only one inflicted; every Death Eater around him had suddenly frozen in action and they were all howling in pain now. The cries of the muggles had diminished to be replaced by those of the Death Eaters.

For some reason, Harry's entire body felt feverish. The night was cold but he was sweaty and clammy and there was a terrible itchiness in his left eye. He spun on the spot as he tried to apparate away from this hellish place, but for the first time in his life, he was met by a solid block of emptiness. Moaning at the pain, he lurched to the nearest building—the Sleepy Otter, ironically—and leaned against it heavily as he tried to collect himself.

Gazing out at the scene with feverish eyes, he saw dozens of members of the Order suddenly emerging from the shadows. The Death Eaters yelped and a few attempted to flee, but without their magic, they couldn't do anything. It appeared, however, as if the Order members couldn't do magic either. Many of them looked extremely uncomfortable and were staring down at their unresponsive wands. The more experienced ones were grabbing the disordered and muddled Death Eaters.

His breath came out in one shaky release, and Harry realized he'd been holding it. He closed his eyes to momentarily calm himself down, and when he opened them again, his head felt clearer. There was still a dull pain in his body, but it had been constant, and he could keep it under control. Edging away from the struggling Order members and Death Eaters, he looked around for the exit.

The Order had most likely set some kind of strange device that expelled magic from the immediate area. If he could get far away enough, he could apparate out. He'd be leaving Death Eaters behind but that was Voldemort's fault for falling for such an easy trap.

Harry spotted the town's gate and archway—it wasn't far away. He was dressed in muggle clothes and he'd lost the mask so he'd be allowed past. It was too dark now that the fires were out to see his eyes, and he could pass as a scared and confused boy well enough.

Pulling his muggle hoodie up and sticking to the shadows as he headed towards the gate, Harry took in his surroundings as quickly as possible. Most of the Death Eaters were still in deep shock from the loss of their magic and the Order members were having no trouble rounding them up. The remaining Order members were attending to the wounded muggles or putting out the remaining fires.

Suddenly, Harry faltered. There—in front of the muggle refilling station—she was.

She had his back turned to him, but he would've spotted her from a mile away. Her trademark Weasley red hair blazed like the fires around her.

"Ginny," he mouthed silently, and as if she'd heard him, she turned around. She looked a lot like she had the last time he'd seen her, but she also looked very different. She was quite pretty, although her features were contorted into worry and anxiety.

Ginny appeared to be searching for something. Harry stood stiffly and furiously debated in his mind whether to approach her or just leave, before reason won out. Bowing his head, he moved to go past her—but then he froze again and turned around to look back at her.

Even with his magic gone, his senses were still top-notch and he could sense another disturbance in the air. Looking around frantically, he briefly wondered if the Order had managed to bring yet another horrifying device with which to capture the Death Eaters with—change them into little dogs or something perhaps—before his eyes fell on the burning muggle refilling station behind Ginny. Then he knew—somehow he knew—it was going to explode.

At the same instant that he ran forward to her, no thoughts on his mind but the wish to save her, her gaze fell curiously on his face. A flurry of emotions—curiosity and then recognition and then shock and then something else—passed across her face, before he reached her. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her away—his head turned to the station, his eyes widened—had they made it?—and then everything exploded—and everything was black—and Harry knew no more.


	6. The Burrow

**Author's note: **French will be expressed between parentheses – "(French)" while German will be expressed between brackets –"[German]".

**Disclaimer:** Based on JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: The Burrow<strong>

Harry woke with a start.

Sitting up immediately, he sat there breathing hard for a moment as if he had been running from something. Seeing his unfamiliar surroundings, he sat there confused as for a moment, he couldn't remember what had happened and why he was here. Then, the events of the night before came flooding back into his mind.

With unfocused eyes, he searched for his wand, and to his relief, found it on a bedside table beside him. Grabbing it, he looked around as he tried to recognize his surroundings. He was in bed in a strange room. The room was soberly decorated, with a wooden desk and wardrobe against the wall, and a long mirror next to it. There were a few carefully framed awards hammered to the wall in the back, and besides them, a window with cotton drapes. From the way the drapes were billowing back with the wind, the window was slightly open.

Gingerly, Harry raised his hand to his face. Something soft was obstructing his right field of view.

Harry groaned and threw back the comforter, swinging his legs to the side. The blasted muggle place had exploded, and he'd been caught in it. So where was he now? Getting up, he tried to walk to the window, but nearly fell as he felt his right leg sharply sting. He looked down and saw that he had been stripped of his muggle clothes. He was only wearing his shorts and the entire right side of his chest, arm and leg area had been swathed in white bandages. Suddenly curious, Harry carefully dragged himself to the mirror. He stared at his reflection.

He looked like one of those victims in the aftermath of one of his and Voldemort's muggle town raids. His head was covered in the same bandages, extending to even the right side of his face—that explained why he could only see out of one eye. His face looked haunted and hollowed.

So. Whoever had him had gone to the trouble of treating his wounds. He looked at his reflection for a few moments longer, until he suddenly heard shouts and squawking from outside. Identifying the source as the window, he staggered to it and looked outside to see a snow-covered yard. The racket was mostly from two warmly dressed boys who were throwing snowballs at a few foolhardy chickens that were feebly hobbling around. The sun was high in the sky; it was noon.

Something from the opposite side of the room, from beyond the door, creaked—it sounded like someone was coming up a wooden stairway. Tensing, Harry turned away from the window, raising his wand defensively at the door as the doorknob turned.

A red-headed boy stepped inside the room and upon seeing Harry awake and alert, looked surprised. Harry sighed in relief and lowered his wand. It was Ron. Like Ginny, he looked the same for the most part since Harry had seen him last—except that in Ron's case, he looked as if he'd been stretched about two feet longer.

"Harry!" said Ron, blinking owlishly, putting down on the bed a tray with a croissant sandwich and a bowl of chicken noodle soup, the smell of which made Harry's mouth water. "You're up already?"

"Ron," said Harry, his mind racing. So he was in the Burrow, that famous abode of the Order. "Where am I?"

"You don't remember?" said Ron, his forehead crinkling. "Last night, one of the Muggle things exploded and you got caught in the blast. We sort of had to drag you out of there – the Order sucked the magic out you know – and then Dad summoned this stretcher and took you home where Mum – er – patched you up a bit. It's been a while, wow, Harry. How've you been? How do you – er – feel…"

Ron said this all very quickly, and Harry stared back at him as he processed the influx of information. Seeing as how the Order had treated him and brought him into one of their strongholds instead of throwing him into a cell in Azkaban, they hadn't caught on to the fact that he was a dark lord.

Ron was looking at him anxiously, and Harry realized he was waiting for Harry to say something.

"I'm alright," said Harry at last. He wasn't quite sure what to say. "I'm grateful you patched me up, as you said."

"It's the least we could do," said Ron immediately, shaking his head. "You saved Ginny. Mum couldn't stop crying when she thought of what could've happened to her…" He trailed off when Harry didn't respond, and looked awkwardly around before his gaze fell on the forgotten tray of food. Brightening, he picked it up again and thrust it eagerly in Harry's direction. "You must be starving!"

Wordlessly, Harry sat down on the bed and took it. With a nod of thanks, he dug into the lukewarm sandwich. After a minute of watching Harry eat, Ron awkwardly left. Harry looked around at the room with rising interest as he ate. He wasn't sure what had compelled him into saving Ginny in that brief moment—it wasn't like him at all to be so rash—but this situation wasn't as bad as he'd thought.

He could use this.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

"What?" said Ginny furiously, glaring at her brother in disbelief. "Harry's awake and you just _left_ him?"

Ginny had been peeling sprouts in the kitchen while Ron went up to Harry's room with a tray of Mrs. Weasley's finest homemade cooking. She now brandished her knife angrily at Ron, who backed away as he put his hands up like a shield.

"He looked like he wanted to be left alone," said Ron defensively.

"He's awake? The poor dear, he must be so confused," said Mrs. Weasley from next the stove, as she stopped the fire under one of the black pots with a tap of her wand.

"Speaking of confused, did you see Ron's face when we found him?"

George and Fred had come in from the yard, their faces red from the cold, and were now taking off their snow-crusted coats.

"Reckon I haven't seen anyone look so shocked since Lee found out we're related," said Fred to Ron.

"We looked for Harry everywhere when he disappeared!" said Ron heatedly. "So how did he suddenly just appear?"

"Maybe he came back to visit you," suggested George to Ginny as he and Fred noisily seated themselves at the table and did a passable imitation of the Cheshire cat.

"I'm going to go see him," said Ginny, putting down the knife to Ron's relief, and wiping her hands on the front of her apron.

"I dunno, Ginny. He didn't look like he wanted to be bothered," said Ron with a shrug. But there was a creak – that fifth stair always creaked loudly – and everyone simultaneously turned to see what it was. Harry was painstakingly climbing down, and seeing them notice him, smiled weakly.

"Harry!" said Ginny, standing up abruptly and immediately hurrying over to Harry. He looked a little pained and accepted her help gratefully. She helped him down into the kitchen, where everyone gawked at him for a still moment.

" 'ello," said Harry, breaking the silence. "It's nice to meet you all...or in Ron and Ginny's case, see you again."

The Weasleys looked at one another, and then as one, bombarded Harry with questions.

"How do you feel – "

"Does it hurt anywhere – "

"What happened yesterday – "

"One at a time," said Harry, smiling. Mrs. Weasley wiped her hands and bustled over to him, smiling at him warmly.

"Harry dear, I'm Mrs. Weasley," she said, beaming at him. "I've heard so much about you. How are you feeling?"

"Quite fine, zank you," said Harry gratefully.

"I tried my best while healing you but you'll have to keep those on for a few more days," said Mrs. Weasley fretfully, eyeing Harry's bandages with concern. Then, she looked up at his face and then softened. "I can't thank you enough for saving Ginny. The entire Weasley family is in debt to you." She wiped a small tear away from her eye.

"Debts aside, I'm Fred," said Fred with a grin, holding out a hand. Harry shook it, grateful that he'd been saved from responding to Mrs. Weasley's emotional outburst. "And this is George. Ginny wouldn't shut up about you in her letters, you know."

"'He has the most beautiful eyes, they're like oceans and I feel like I'm drowning in them,'" said George in a high falsetto. Fred and Ron roared with laughter as Ginny, red-faced, whacked George on the arm, turning scarlet.

"I never said anything like that," she said irritably. Harry laughed, but immediately stopped with Ginny whirled around to face him. "Really, Harry. What happened all those years ago? You just disappeared one night, without even telling Mrs. Figg. And then you suddenly came back into our lives yesterday, as if you'd never gone!"

"Well…it's a long story," said Harry hesitantly.

"I'll say," said Ron, shaking his head. "You just disappeared on us, mate. Ginny went nuts looking for you. Speaking of which – Harry – why were you there yesterday?"

"Ah…I never got the chance to explain, did I?" said Harry. "I didn't really 'ave ze time. I'm sorry."

"I thought you said he was from Germany," said George suddenly, eyeing Harry shrewdly. "But that's a French accent, isn't it?"

Ginny and Ron blinked in surprise as they realized that George was right, and Harry hurried to tell them the story he had thought up just a few minutes ago.

"So…you have a French accent now because aunt in France just adopted you like _that_? And you came here to vacation _yesterday_?" said Ron once Harry was done. One of the pots on the stove started to whistle loudly. Mrs. Weasley hurried to the stove with her wand raised.

"Yes," said Harry. "Delacour. My name is Henri Delacour now."

"Ahn-ree?" said Ron and Ginny blankly.

"Henri," said Harry, and patiently spelled it out for them. "It's a French name. I changed my name after my aunt and uncle adopted me. I'd rather you call me by Henri now, if you don't mind. I 'aven't been called 'arry in years."

"You mean to say that Ginny's been mooning after a guy for all these years, and she didn't even get the name right?" said Fred solemnly.

"Ron must have rubbed off on her more than we thought, Fred," said George in the sad and gravely undertones of a vicar. Seeing Ginny pick up her knife again, the two looked at each other and then simultaneously fled the kitchen howling with laughter.

With the twins gone, Harry was able to spend the rest of the afternoon amiably talking with Ginny and Ron, catching up on what they had been up to for the past few years, before Mrs. Weasley decided that he had strained himself quite enough for the day. Ron helped Harry return to bed – Percy had moved to Ron's room – and Ginny returned to peeling the sprouts as Mrs. Weasley busied herself preparing the dinner meal.

With the repetitive motion of slicing, Ginny's thoughts soon strayed to the boy sleeping in the room above her. She hadn't expected to see him again—or at least, not in such a dramatic manner. Ginny had recognized him immediately. He looked similar to the way he had four years ago, but—here, she blushed—had he really been so good-looking before? She couldn't remember thinking that about him. Granted, she'd only been nine, but surely that hadn't made her blind?

She suddenly heard laughter from upstairs, and smiled. She was glad that they could still get along so well with Harry—or Henri, now, as he was called. Fred and George had, at least, gotten one thing right: she _had_ thought about Harry often over the years. She'd been so worried they would be strangers when they saw each other again. But he was back now, and to her relief, things felt the same as they had in the past.

Suddenly, she jerked in pain, and dropped her knife. She'd cut herself while she was lost in her thoughts. A drop of blood dripped down on the leaf.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

Several hundred miles away in Malfoy Manor, Lord Voldemort's red eyes glistened dangerously as he heard the news from the quivering messenger before him. Without answering, he got up from his throne and dismissed the messenger, who gratefully fled the dark room.

Calmly and purposefully, he swept his way to the grand glass wall-length windows and surveyed the snow-covered surroundings.

Somehow, the night before, his lower-ranking Death Eaters had received a false order and fell right in to Dumbledore's hands. Obviously some kind of Order spy or mole—he'd have to sniff it out later and kill it. It was an annoying setback but not too much of a loss—none of those who had been captured knew anything that the Order already didn't know.

But somehow Kaiser had also been there…and been caught. Why had his old friend been there? And how had he been caught?

Voldemort steepled his fingers together thoughtfully as he turned his baleful gaze upon Malfoy, who was standing stiffly behind him, ready for orders.

"The one Death Eater who got away. He said that the Order somehow took their magic away from them while they were there?" said Voldemort quietly.

"Yes, my lord," said Malfoy, dipping his head. "And Rookwood from the Department of Mysteries has been forced into making an Unbreakable bond regarding it. But we have been able to gather that it is some kind of device that blankets an area and draws all the magic out as its power source, my lord."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes.

"Leave," he said irritably, and Malfoy backed out of the room immediately. Pacing, Voldemort hissed for Nagini, who came slithering up his arm. A plan was starting to form in his mind.

Dumbledore had been a step ahead this time, but Voldemort would make him dearly pay.

Stepping forward into the darkness, Lord Voldemort disapparated.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

Harry had been quite enjoying himself during his brief stay at the Burrow, despite himself. The Weasleys were a silly family, and the house itself was simply a motley collection of rooms and furniture stacked on top of each other with magic, but it was easy to fall into his role of the gentle and kind old friend. He used it so often that it came quite easily to him, and he was able to make good use of it.

Over the past few days, the Weasleys had come over easily enough. Ron was his best friend once more, the twins thought he was hilarious with his French accent, Percy—their older brother—approved of his education, Mrs. Weasley doted on him and force fed him several helpings every meal, and Ginny…well, he'd caught her staring at him dazedly several times, much to her embarrassment.

The only resistance came from Mr. Weasley, who hadn't seemed to buy Harry's story as readily as the others. But with Harry telling him all about his strolls through muggle London, he seemed to becoming more open. Only time would tell.

There was a loud knock on his door.

"Hey Harr – I mean, Henri," Ron called from outside. "We're about to play some Quidditch – the snow's mostly gone. Wanna come join us, mate?"

"Yeah, I'll be zere," said Harry, getting up and stretching. Most of his bandages were off – his skin was a bit red still but for the most part was healing quickly – but he'd felt inclined to leave the ones swathed around his face alone. The colors of his eyes could prove to be a problem, and he would rather put it off for as long as possible.

Quickly dressing, Harry hurried down the stairs and went outside to the yard, where the rest of them were already waiting with brooms in their hands. It was still quite cold, so their breaths were coming out as white mist. Despite the temperature, several chickens were still clucking around, pecking at the ground.

"Are we taking turns zen?" said Harry pointedly, holding out his bare hands.

"Oh – no, Darren's coming over with his dad's broom," said Ron, scratching his nose and looking interestedly upon the twins, who were scraping snow off of the roof of the chicken house.

"He's a friend of ours," explained Ginny when she saw Harry's bemused expression. The twins began pelting their snow balls at the chickens which squawked and flapped their useless wings.

"More like a friend of yours," Ron muttered to Ginny. Ginny opened her mouth to retort something back, but before she could, the door to the Burrow had opened.

The strange boy that came out first was scowling fiercely, and he clutched two brooms tightly to his chest. Behind him, with a weary expression of his face, was Mr. Potter.

Harry stiffened immediately, but struggled to relax and keep his face blank as the pair got closer. Mr. Potter's appearance wasn't a surprise to him, of course; both the Weasleys and the Potters were avid members of Dumbledore's fan club, and it was only natural that they get along with one another.

Mr. Potter didn't appear to have noticed him yet, as he was engaged in a conversation with whom, Harry presumed, was his second son. They didn't look alike much; their coloring was the same and within a few years, the boy would probably be the exact height as his father. Even some of their features were similar, with the same thin face and nose. But for some reason that Harry couldn't put his finger on, they didn't look similar to him at all.

" – didn't have to speak to your mother like that, Darren – "

"I said I'm sorry!"

"Not to me, to your mother!"

"Can we have this talk later? Seriously, Dad – "

"No, you've been acting this way for some time and it is _not _accepta – "

"I'm sorry I'm not Harry! Okay?"

Here, Mr. Potter turned silent, and shaking his head, he looked up from his fuming son. He then suddenly seemed to notice that the rest of them were all silently waiting, and turned flustered.

"Hey guys," said Mr. Potter wearily, and the Weasleys greeted him back. Harry was silent, not hiding himself completely, but hoping that Mr. Potter would leave without recognizing him. But no—Mr. Potter's eyes were already widening in recognition.

"Aren't you…Ahn-ree Delacour?" said Mr. Potter in a bewildered tone. The Potter's son, Darren, eyed Harry curiously.

"'ello, Monsieur Potter," said Harry quietly.

"Why're you here?" said Mr. Potter, looking back and forth between Harry and Ginny. The rest of the assembled Weasleys looked at each other uneasily, before Ron stepped forward.

"Har – Henri's the one who saved Ginny, Mr. Potter," said Ron uncomfortably. Harry nodded silently. "So you – er – know each other I guess?"

Mr. Potter looked a little lost for words, but he nodded. For a moment, Mr. Potter stared at Harry with an unreadable expression on his face, and then looked away. Possibly feeling as if Mr. Potter may redirect his attention to him, Darren had hurried to move behind Ginny.

"So – why are you here, Mr. Potter?" said Ginny at last.

"Oh – the Order's going to have a meeting here tonight," said Mr. Potter hesitantly, and then looked down at his watch. "They should start arriving in an hour, so you guys have until then to fly."

"Did something happen?" asked Fred worriedly.

"Nothing you have to worry about," said Mr. Potter firmly. He gave a hard look at his son, who sullenly looked away. With a sigh, he glanced fleetingly at Harry, and then went back inside.

Although by then, everyone had lost any desire to play Quidditch, the game still started with Harry using Mr. Potter's Nimbus 2000, and an hour sluggishly passed by. Finally, Harry caught the snitch, winning the game for his team, and with little ado, they hurried back inside the house shivering.

"I hope Tonks is coming," said George as they stripped off their wet clothes in the kitchen; Ginny had went up to her room. "She's a laugh."

"You'll meet loads of interesting people, Henri," said Fred, his face indiscernible as he tugged on a dry top. "Although I'd be surprised if they let you stay for the meeting, even _if _ you saved Ginny's life."

"Ginny's life?" said Darren questioningly. But before anyone could answer him, there was a loud crackle. They turned to see that the empty fireplace below the mantelpiece had suddenly filled with emerald green flames. The boys hurriedly finished dressing.

A young woman with bright bubblegum pink hair and a man with graying hair stepped out. The woman was vibrant, and spotting them in an instant, gave a cheerful wave. Harry immediately recognized her as one of the more active but lower-powered Aurors he'd clashed with recently, and dismissively turned his attention towards the older man. He had a prematurely lined face and there was something haunted in his expression, but the man also gave them a warm smile.

"Wotcher," said the woman, as they came over.

"Tonks, Remus, how is it?" said Fred eagerly.

"Not that great, but things are looking up," said Remus grimly, but next to him, Tonks shook her head disapprovingly and put her hand on his arm.

"Never mind all this gloom," said Tonks, and screwed up her face in concentration. A moment later, to Harry's surprise, her nose transformed into a thick-edged pink pig nose. The rest roared in laughter, and Harry smiled as he looked at her calculatingly. So she was a metamorphmagus, was she?

"Have you seen what Remus brought? It's…something you'd want to see."

Remus shook his head, smiling as the twins turned excitedly towards him.

"You don't mean – " said George in a hushed, awed tone.

"Yes I do mean it," said Tonks in an equally hushed tone, and the twins immediately dragged a half-unwilling Remus out of the living room. Smiling, Tonks turned to the remaining three. "C'mon guys, Molly needs all the help in the kitchen she can get. It's going to be a big meeting tonight."

Ron and Darren compliantly followed her, exchanging brief updates with her as they went, and Harry was about to tag along when he stopped. He could feel something. He turned around, and saw that the fireplace had filled with the bright emerald fires again. He waited.

And a moment later, the fires subsided with a flash as a tall elderly wizard with half-moon glasses and a flowing silver beard stepped out. He brushed ashes off of his purple robes, and looked up around the Weasley kitchen as if admiring it. Then suddenly, he turned around sharply to meet Harry's gaze. A faint look of surprise flittered across the wizard's face as he straightened himself.

It was silent.

"Hello Mr. Delacour," said Dumbledore finally with a small nod. Harry offered him a cold smile.

"Hello."


	7. Rising Smoke

**Author's note: **Please note that unless there is a time shift noted in italics, even if there is a chapter break ({SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}) it is still in the same time frame. French will be expressed between parentheses – "(French)" while German will be expressed between brackets –"[German]".

**Disclaimer:** Based on JK Rowling's Harry Potter series.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: Rising Smoke<strong>

_Bergen 1943_

The sky was a pure blue and not a single cloud was in sight. After the long winter, the trees were finally starting to bloom and brought life to the otherwise barren landscape. It was quiet except for a small muffled keening sound in the distance.

Following a long, well-trodden dirt pathway, one could turn the corner and see a collection of beaten down and weary barracks contained behind rusty chain link fences. Filthy grey smokestacks thrust out of the ground and belched black clouds that dwindled into nothing high up in the sky.

There were several gaunt looking humans sitting on the ground or pacing aimlessly behind the fences. The guards, tall and distant in their long coat uniforms, ignored them and stood stiffly near the gates. They'd received news that the _Reichsleiter _would be coming here to check up on the camp.

Suddenly, there was a scuffle and then a shout—one of the prisoners, filthy and mad-eyed, was somehow holding a guard's gun. The guard in question was groaning on the ground next to the prisoner, who swung the gun around wildly. The prisoner screamed at them to let him go. The other guards looked at each other uncertainly. One hard-eyed blonde guard raised his gun and fired several rounds at the crazy prisoner.

But just a few inches away from the prisoner, the bullets froze in midair and dropped to the ground with a tinkle. The guards blinked in confusion and gaped as the prisoner began to run in the direction of the gates, and then dove for cover as he started to shoot randomly behind him. The other prisoners who had been listlessly standing by the fences suddenly began to rapidly and purposely follow the escapee outside.

The prisoner's hollowed face had ripped into a grin and some sort of wild hope had started to bleach his dead eyes as he got closer to freedom—and then suddenly, he came to a stop just a step away from the gate as if he had ran into an invisible brick wall. He crumpled to the ground. His stolen gun fell to the ground with a clatter, and the following prisoners skidded to a stop.

There was a tall middle-aged man standing just beyond the gates. He was handsome and blonde, and dressed in a plain brown jacket and pants with a strange triangular insignia on his arm. His face was expressionless although his eyes seemed to gleam in distaste. Before any of the remaining prisoners could react, the man raised a strange stick in his hand—it would have looked comical in any other situation—and waved it through the air. They fell to the ground screaming in pain, convulsing and contorting into inhuman positions.

The last thing they saw before passing out from the unbearable agony was the bright blue eyes of a frightened young boy standing over them.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

When his father disapparated, Harry sat stiffly on the wooden chair for a few more minutes. He waited until his pounding heart, which seemed to be the loudest thing in the room, could slow down. The lavishly decorated drawing room was mostly empty except for himself: the only signs of movement were from an enchanted duster that was slowly brushing at the hanging (and protesting) tapestries on the walls.

Finally, as if he had come to a decision, he abruptly stood up and hurried out of the room. He quickly headed up a winding staircase and then down a long empty corridor lined with torches before finally reaching his destination.

Bursting into the room, he found that a house elf was already there, dressing a sulking little girl with blond curls. It was a nursery room, but somberly and maturely decorated with a wooden bed and a dresser. The only things representative of its young inhabitant were the pinned up pictures of clumsily colored stick figures that apparently represented their family.

Upon seeing her older brother, Helene squealed and reached out for him with her pudgy arms. The house elf hesitated, and then stepped back.

"[Harry!]" said Helene cheerfully, rushing up to him. "[Mama said you were beezy today with Father so I had to play with Nadja!]" She wrapped her arms around his waist—he was only six, but he was tall for his age—and beamed up at him.

Harry looked down at his sister and could not bring himself to tell her of all the horrors he had seen today. He could not possibly recount to her how many bodies he'd counted on the ground and how he had never known anyone could scream so loudly. Harry clenched his fists. He was weak, he knew. His father would have been so disappointed if he knew what Harry truly thought of everything.

"[I came back a little earlier than I thought,]" said Harry, smiling down at her indulgently. "[I can play with you for an hour until I have to go for my lessons.]"

"[A hole hour!]" said Helene excitedly. "[Let's play Kweedeetch– "] She stopped and her face fell. "[Mama said I can't go outside.]"

"[Why not?]" said Harry, glancing up at the clock hanging from the wall to check the time.

"[I don't know,]" she said glumly, looking down at her newly polished shoes. "[Mama hates me.]"

"[That's not true!]" said Harry. "[Come on – I'll take you outside. It's a beautiful day.]"

After the house elf finished dressing Helene, Harry took her by the hand and led her outside. Their villa was at least ten miles away from the camp so none of the terrible things could possibly be seen. He could still see the black smoke from the camp rising in the distance but that was all.

There were a few muggle officers with dogs standing guard at the iron gates in front of the villa, but Harry knew they were mostly for show. The real protection came from the wards and enchantments their father had set—no one could possibly get through.

He took Helene into the garden, where newly bloomed snow drops were scattered across the growing grass. They couldn't play Quidditch because of the muggle guards and visitors and their mother was too busy to be constantly Obliviating their slipups, but Helene seemed to enjoy just collecting the flowers and making wreaths which she draped over Harry's head.

The hour flew by quickly and Harry was about to take Helene back inside, when the wind changed direction. The fresh scent of the snow drops quickly dissolved in the new smells that were coming their way. Harry's gaze immediately flickered to the dark smoke. It smelled of decay.

"[Harry,]" said Helene, wrinkling her nose and dropping the snow drop bracelet she'd been making. "[Harry, I smell poo.]"

"[Let's go inside Helene,]" said Harry, taking her hand. The stench was getting worse, and Helene put both her hands over her nose and mouth. Harry quickly pulled her back into the villa, but even after the door closed, the smell clung to their clothes.

"[Why does it smell like poo?]" said Helene, frowning as Harry changed her coat. She was sitting on the chair in the drawing room, her feet dangling over the edge. "[Was that a _Stinktier_?]"

"[Yeah, it was a skunk,]" Harry lied, his fingers trembling a little as he took her shoes off. "[It smelled bad didn't it?]"

"[So bad! Do I have to smell it again? I don't want to.]"

"[No, I'll make sure you don't have to smell it again," said Harry softly, and pulling her small body towards him, he buried his face in her hair. The smell was even in her hair.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

_The Burrow, 1996_

It was tense in the Weasleys' dining room, where the majority of the Order had gathered. The underage teenagers and children had all been sent upstairs. The table had been cleared to make room, and they all sat in a circle on a motley assortment of wooden chairs and poufy armchairs. Dumbledore sat at the back of the room with an unusually solemn expression on his face.

James Potter worriedly looked at his wife, and squeezed her hand. Lily squeezed back. Dumbledore had just brought news that Voldemort was on the move again. He suspected that Voldemort may have plans to ally with the giants. Even though the New Years' trap and capture—subtly laid by Snape—had been a 'success' it had done little besides improve morale in the Ministry. The Death Eaters they had managed to capture were little more than pawns, and their only connections were their greed for power. The Daily Prophet had of course capsized on the capture, if only to improve Fudge's reputation, and the entire Ministry had been celebrating the following day.

But now, the Order knew that Voldemort was planning something big in retaliation. It was expected of course, given the wizard's pride, but still—it wasn't something that any of them had been quite ready for, if ever.

"…James?"

James jumped in his seat, and saw to his embarrassment that the rest of the Order was staring expectantly at him, waiting for an answer.

"Er…sorry, what was the question?" he said, shaking his head to clear it. Lily squeezed his hand again reassuringly.

"Voldemort's been moving the past few days but there's no sign of Kaiser," said Arthur Weasley helpfully. "Have any of the Aurors got anything to report?"

James had recently been made the Head of the Auror Office and had been able to provide some useful connections and information for the Order. He exchanged meaningful glances with Sirius, who was sprawled in exhaustion on a patchwork armchair.

"On every single raid this past week, it's been solely Voldemort and Death Eaters. No one has seen Kaiser or any Night Walkers," said James. "We're thinking Kaiser may have been injured and is lying low for now."

"Either that or he's plotting something and Voldemort's causing havoc to distract us," added Sirius, and Frank nodded.

"Voldemort hasn't said anything, Severus?" said Lily to Snape, who shook his head. James frowned. What was going on, that Voldemort wasn't telling even his inner circle?

For a few minutes, the members of the Order put forward possible explanations for this strange behavior without getting anywhere, before Dumbledore suddenly put his hand up for attention. It got quiet, and everyone immediately looked at the wizard.

"Were only Death Eaters captured on New Years?" said the elderly wizard. "Was there anyone else?"

"There were a few muggle travelers caught up, but that's it," said Tonks. There were a few murmurs of assent.

"We've already sent them ahead to St. Mungo's and performed the necessary memory charms," added Remus.

"No one else?" said Dumbledore, and then to everyone's surprise, he looked at the Weasleys, who jumped.

"I'm sorry – what – ?" said Molly confusedly.

"I noticed a certain new guest was in the house tonight," said Dumbledore gravely. "A Mr. Delacour, I believe."

"Ron's old friend was here on vacation with his relatives and got caught in the crossfire," said Arthur coolly, catching on. James raised his eyebrows. "Surely – you aren't considering a fifteen-year old boy as a threat now, Dumbledore?"

"A wizard boy?" growled Alastor, his magic eye swiveling up to look at the ceiling. The battle-hardened ex-Auror had only recently stepped down from the job—only at the insistence of the rest of the Order, who felt that he had sacrificed quite enough already—but he was as vigilant as ever.

"I saw him right when we got here," said Tonks cautiously. "We talked with him a little right before the meeting. He seemed like a normal kid."

"But…he did have a strong French accent," said Remus slowly, his forehead furrowing in thought.

There were brief murmurs of discussion from all around the circle. Lily didn't say anything but crossed her arms in obvious disapproval. James agreed; no matter how creepy the kid was, a fifteen-year old couldn't possibly be a _dark lord_. Besides, he'd grown up under the Delacours—how bad could he be?

James looked at Sirius, who grinned exasperatedly and then snorted, catching people's attentions.

"C'mon people," said Sirius loudly, rolling his eyes. "Kaiser doesn't even _have_ a French accent. It's more of a German accent than anything, really."

"I can vouch for him," said James, raising his hand. Everyone looked at him. "I know his aunt and uncle – they're the Delacours. They're a good sort. His name is Henri Delacour."

"I'll keep an eye on him Albus," grunted Alastor. "But he's only fifteen. With us around, the only thing he'll be able to do around here will be eating double helpings of Molly's treacle tarts."

"Yes," agreed Dumbledore. He looked a little distant, and although he was facing James' direction, his eyes seemed to be looking at something beyond him. "He can't possibly be..."

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

_A few days later…_

It was just before midnight in Paris and its good inhabitants were finally dropping to sleep. Several muggle cars dazedly drove past the Eiffel tower, pierced by the rays of falling moonlight. The air was cold and crispy and several hundreds of miles away in London, the spirit of an abandoned girl finally moved to the beyond.

Outside of the city, in one of the scattered manors, a beautiful girl was sleeping fretfully in her room on the fourth landing. The window by the bed was wide open, tantalizingly inviting in all those that passed by. A shadow passed over the girl's pale figure and stood still for a minute, before the girl murmured something intangible in her sleep.

The shadow moved and caressed the girl's cheek with a cold finger.

"Helene," whispered the shadow longingly.

Far away in the distance, the bells started gonging as the minute hand struck twelve. In the blink of an eye, the shadow was gone and the girl was alone in sleep.


	8. Beauxbatons

It's been a loong time since I updated this story, and I would like to continue it but I don't like how this story has turned out so far honestly, and I've long lost my drive. I'll upload the part of chapter 8 that I typed up months ago, but I doubt I'll be able to continue this story unless the God of Plot Bunnies gives me a vision.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: Beauxbatons<strong>

Beauxbatons Academy of Magic – Unplottable, but known to be located somewhere in southern France – was often compared to its (lesser) neighbors Durmstrang and Hogwarts. However, in Madame Maxime's opinion, the magnificent palace housed much more than either. Unlike Durmstrang which was much too interested in the Dark Arts, and Hogwarts, which was much too interested in being mediocre, Beauxbatons offered its students a complete education in both magic _and_ society. It was not just a home to its students, it was a _haven_.

But the first day of classes after Winter Break, during breakfast, Madame Maxime looked worriedly over her students from her seat at the High Table. She hid her anxiety behind the calm expression she always presented to her students, but she had to struggle because she knew exactly what was wrong. She smoothened down her dark scarlet robes. She had seen _La Gazette du Sorcier _immediately, of course. The usual chatter and babble that filled the Great Hall had completely disappeared as the flood of owls dropped the newspapers, and as the responsible article was read, the hall was instead replaced by a hushed and tense mood that permeated throughout the school.

Even the choirs of wood nymphs seemed to have sensed the mood. All morning they had been wailing Mozart's Requiem Mass. And visually reflecting the somberness, every student, from the smallest mousy-haired first year to the confident, self-assured seventh year, was huddled together at the tables, picking at their food. Except for one group, which's members were calmly putting jam on their croissants while quietly engaging one another in conversation. They were sitting at the edge of the premier Circle table.

The students at Beauxbatons were divided into _Circles_, to reflect social circles. It was not like the way Hogwarts divided their students into permanent (and random, Madame Maxime suspected) Houses or the way Durmstrang divided their students based on wealth and purity of blood. At Beauxbatons, they were separated by their achievements here, and their placement was liable to change, for better or for worse, at the end of every semester. There were five Circles, and every first year began at the very lowest Circle, the fifth-level Circle. Generally, as students progressed through the Circles, most of them made it to the second-level Circle by the end of their seventh year. Only the most elite and promising – or at least whose family was the most influential – students made it to the first-level Circle – also known as the _Premier_.

Madame Maxime picked up her glass of red wine and sipped at it, peering over its edge as she did so to observe them. It was Delacour's group, of course. He was sitting right in the middle of his friends with a slice of bread in his hand, nodding as the boy next to him told him something. The morning edition of _La Gazette du Sorcier_ was still sitting on the table in front of them, folded and bound – unread.

Henri Delacour had always been a mystery to her. He was in fact, a mystery in all the Parisian social circles ever since he suddenly appeared four or five years ago. The Delacour family had insisted that he had been living abroad with his parents, whom had unfortunately died in some freak accident. So he had come to live with them instead. Questions were raised at the time, but had been quickly squashed at the command of the mysterious Delacour matriarch. And when the boy came to Beauxbatons, any doubts about his abilities had disappeared almost instantaneously.

The boy was a genius.

The rest of his group did not come from such questionable origins. They were all heirs of important, wealthy pureblood families – Dubois, Laurent, Trottier, Berger – and had grown up firmly set in such high circles, hence all of their placement into the _Premier_. Yet for some reason, they had all inexplicably gathered around Delacour. And, to Madame Maxime's discomfort, for some reason, it did not feel like a normal friendship between school children. There was something deeper – more sinister – about it all.

But that was ridiculous. Madame Maxime finished her breakfast, and looking down at the now sobbing nymphs, made a mental note to ask Professeur Babin to cancel the choir for lunchtime.

**{SLEEPING A THOUSAND YEARS}**

For Harry, Beauxbatons was like a breath of air. A breath of stale air, that is. While at school, he did not necessarily need to be plotting all the time. It was almost like a break, except it was offset by how worthless Harry felt his time here to be. He had long ago learned what he had needed to learn from his mother and father, and felt irked at the level of mediocrity he frequently saw here. And to think, Beauxbatons was one of the better Wizarding schools in Europe. This thorn of irritation in his side was only slightly assuaged by knowing that it was precisely such failures that entered the Ministry.

Today, the Great Hall was unusually silent except for the incessant wailing of those infuriating nymph choirs. Harry hadn't bothered to check _La Gazette_, but judging from the stony and somber expressions, he guessed that Voldemort had been up to his usual antics. As soon as he had returned to Paris, he had sent out a Night Walker to deliver the message to Voldemort that he was back, but he hadn't received a response yet. Voldemort was undoubtedly sulking that it had taken Harry so long to contact him. But Harry was sure he would be singing a different tune as soon as Harry told him about the new connections he had made in his absence.

After breakfast, Harry headed to Charms class with the rest of his circlemates. After an intensely boring hour of repeating the same incantation and waving his wand precisely in the correct loop, he was headed to his History of Magic class when the inevitable happened.

"(Oi Delacour,)" called out a terse and strained voice from behind him. Harry internally sighed, but when he turned around to face the owner of the voice, his face and form were, as usual, composed and haughtily calm. It was a boy Harry didn't know, and he was probably around his age, give or take a year. Judging from the magically-woven sigil on his chest, he was in the third-level Circle.

"(Yes?)" said Harry coolly, any hints of the weariness he felt completely hidden under the layers of ice in his voice.

"(I'm here to give you a message from my family,)" said the boy, narrowing his eyes, and stepping forward as if in contest. "(The Delacours may be an old family, but times are changing. Your family is no long as powerful as it used to be, Delacour, and your blood is _tainted_,)" The boy gave a vicious smile of glee as he gestured at Harry's face pointedly. "(Even your pretty face won't save you when the time has come.)"

The halls of Beauxbaton were enormous and they were rarely packed or difficult to navigate, but at the moment, every student passing through had stopped to look upon the current unfolding situation. As a consequence, traffic had come to a standstill and those too far away to see what was happening had begun calling out in bewilderment.

Laurent and Trottier, the relatively newest additions to his little group, had begun to draw out their wands, but Harry raised a steady hand to stop them.

"(Let me guess,)" said Harry idly, as if he and the boy were exchanging pleasantries over some biscuits and tea. "(Did my dear cousin turn down your older brother? Cousin? Or yourself, perhaps?)" The boy immediately flushed a deep red, and Harry knew he had hit the mark. "(Well then. My deepest apologies on behalf of the Delacour family. I'm sure my cousin did not mean to offend.)" The boy gaped at Harry and didn't respond.

Harry noticed some disturbance in the back and a moment later, saw the source. Professeur Chirac had finally come to see what the commotion was about, and had began ordering the students to start moving in her barking voice. Most of the students had recognized the dismissing tone in Harry's words as a sign to start moving, and had complied. Quickly, the noise of dozens of conversations clashing rose into the air, and Harry began walking to his class with the rest of his group. Looking back subtly from the corners of his eyes, Harry saw the boy – he still couldn't place him in his memory, his family was probably one of the lower-placed gentry – standing stock still before abruptly walking away.


End file.
